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The History of Callaron
Callaron has seen it's fair share of violence and struggle, as well as peace and prosperity. You seek to know more about what events led up to the creation of the world we now live in. In an ancient library reeking with the must of decaying books and dust, you uncover a tome that seems to outline just that. You open the book carefully, the spine nearly breaking with age, the pages yellow and fragile. There, in elegant hand-written scawl, the ink takes you on a journey through the past and pulls back the veil of mystery. The Age of Pandemonium During a more primal period of time known as the Age of Pandemonium, Callaron was a dangerous and wild place. Beasts and creatures of all manners roamed freely, vying for survival and supremacy, all trying to earn a place. The ‘civilized’ races warred for land and territory; including The Fey, Dwarves, and Humans, who were young at the time. Even the Fey creatures themselves were torn by war and discord, driving out their selfish and cruel and banishing them. In some parts of the land magic ran rampant, devastating life with vicious and random elemental storms or spewing forth extraplanar beasts unlike anything yet seen. One such creature came to be known as the Sanngridor, a massive and powerful humanoid beast that was nothing less than the pure embodiment of darkness and malevolence. Only two Sanngridor made it through during a random planeshift event, but it was more than enough. With the world in turmoil and war constantly ravaging villages and primitive cities, the Sanngridor saw only fertile breeding grounds. They were subtle at first, responsible for the unexplained disappearance of a solitary adventurer or small caravan, but as their numbers grew they became bold, emptying small villages. Race mattered not to their strange and twisted magic; once their rituals were complete one became a full-bodied Sanngridor. The Fey were the first to realize the impending threat, and generally being the most sensible, attempted to organize a suspension of hostilities among the ‘civilized’ races. Few heeded their word and continued to fight stubbornly, but some did, most notably the Dragons. The Chromatics saw these new creatures as too powerful a threat to their status of being the most feared creature to ever inhabit Callaron. The Metallics feared for the lives of all good-willed creatures and free life as a whole. As an entire race the Dragons refused to be overcome by a creature that was not even native to their world. Strangely, the banished Fey returned from their hidden sanctuaries in response to the Fey-Draconic pact, to ally with the Chromatic Dragons in particular. After much studying and information gathering, including a physical attempt at one’s life, they realized that eliminating the Sanngridor would be beyond either race’s capabilities. As the Sanngridor threat increased steadily, those who would resist became desperate. With little option left to them, they enacted a plan that few believed would even succeed. Known as the Terminal Measure, elves and dragons of complimentary alignments began to breed together, Fey with Metallics and Banished Fey with Chromatics. The effort would, hopefully, combine the strengths of both parties while minimizing their weaknesses. The desire was to produce a warrior capable of going toe-to-toe with a Sanngridor and surviving the encounter, emerging victorious in the best-case scenario. The resulting offspring were more than either race could have expected. In general, they physically resembled their Fey parents, being unnaturally attractive in appearance. However, they were distinctly more feral, showing their draconic heritage in multiple ways. They possessed fang-like teeth, longer ears, stronger features, wilder personalities, larger builds, and many other subtle clues. Each type manifested differently, but was most commonly identified by eye color. They were extremely unrefined and volatile but their raw power, unbridled draconic power, and acute Fey qualities inspired hope in their creators. They were called Alvitiir. After a few short conflicts in which the Alvitiir were able to showcase their might against the Sanngridor, it became apparent that there were a decent match for the shadowy invaders. Sensing a possible defeat on the horizon, the Sanngridor gathered and retreated into the depths below the land. The civilized races took this as a sign of defeat - all but the Fey and the dragons, at least. Without the terrifying threat of destruction looming overhead, tensions amonf the races eased and more peaceful conclusions ended long conflicts. As the Sanngridors' darkness and malice seemingly faded, Callaron entered what is now known as the Veiled Age. The Veiled Age For many years, all of the races of the world focused almost entirely on themselves, developing civilizations and making technological advances, and rarely bothering to interact with one another. Some might view this as a historically peaceful period, when in actuality it was simply a temporary negligence of conflict in order to better prepare for inevitable encounters to come. During this time the Fey creatures officially split themselves into the Eladrin, Elves, and Drow. Dwarves placed claims on mountains and vast mines. The Alvitiir began to grow rapidly, both in numbers and as a race. Soon they felt it was time to seperate themselves from the Fey creatures and begin building a legacy of their own. They quickly became a recognized world entity, the combination of draconic and Fey ingenuity aiding them in making great strides in the fields of civilization and technology. It was not long before they too had well established-cities, yet remained strong allies with both their Fey and draconic parentages. Midway through the Veiled Age, it was the humans who began to feel left behind. With the Alvitiir advancing quickly towards levels of awe and wonder that those of the Fey had possessed for centuries, and the Dwarves still refusing to share their amazing mechanical and architectural knowledge, Humans began to fear for their place in the world. They appealed to the Alvitiir, who seemed the most approachable, to share knowledge and technique. The Metallics regarded them with benevolence, being kind and fair, and offered the Humans advancements in medicine, agriculture, and other fields to better their general quality of life. They did not, however, share their working knowledge in the fields of war: magic, weaponry, and the likes. The reason for that was twofold: they did not want to incite conflict with other races with a simple misunderstanding that could be viewed as the Alvitiir arming the Humans, and the simple rule that one did not share all of one’s secrets with a potential enemy. The Metallics had no animosity towards the humans, but they were well aware that the Humans could quite possibly be an enemy before long for one reason or another. For a long while things were peaceful, some Humans even viewed the Alvitiir as deities and worshipped their benevolence. Some, however, viewed the Alvitiir as oppressors. One group in particular lived in the shadow of the Tirithil Alps, which hid the path to Mytandul - the Metallics' hidden island. They recognized that the Metallics were sharing all but their most powerful and useful technologies, and felt this to be an unfair violation of their alliance. When confronted, the Metallics put it simply: Humans could not be trusted with such power, and it was for their own good. This enraged them and their broke their pacts with the Metallics, vowing to forge a path to power on their own. They left the shelter of their village, throwing away the protection and education that the Metallics provided. They chartered ships and left Utica for Arcion, to the northeast. They became known as the Forsworn. They wandered the wilds of Arcion for some time, looking for a place to settle. As they neared the Tirithil alps, they were approached by Chromatic Alvitiir. The Chromatics fed them lies and false promises of power in return for allegiance. Helpless for their lack of protection and aid from the Metallics, the Forsworn agreed…and found themselves enslaved. They became the inhabitants of a sorrowful mining town built to claim deep veins of precious stones and gems. They served their Chromatic overlords dutifully, who in turn offered protection, even if it were only the greed of one’s possessions. Too prideful to seek the aid of the Metallics and brethren they had unjustly scorned, they sought aid outside of traditional circles. A strange organization known as The Conclave had made itself known in recent years, though what they did was more a mystery than where they could be found. According to rumor, the only way to gain The Conclave’s attention was to paint their symbol in fresh blood on a stationary object in a discreet place and return to that place each night, refreshing the symbol each time, until a member presented himself to you. The only man skilled and dedicated enough to sneak out past his guards to perform the ritual was called Durin Stykr, one of the first Forsworn who had questioned the Metallics openly. Motivated by something akin to guilt for the partial responsibility of his peoples’ situation, Durin escaped from his village every night and fled into the Karivik for nearly two weeks. On the eleventh night, just an hour after Durin refreshed the symbol, a lithe figure in a dark cloak approached him so silently he almost didn’t notice. The figure introduced itself as Zura Silentstep, a name that was infamous in many parts of the world. Zura Silentstep the Thief was a bandit of preposterous skill, well known for looting the strongest, most secured vaults and treasure holds before anyone noticed he had been there. He was so efficient in fact that it would be impossible to know he had been there at all if he hadn’t begun leaving thank you notes behind. After the introductions, Durin explained his situation to Zura, who listened with keen interest. In the end, Zura agreed to assist Durin in obtaining the power he needed to liberate his people in exchange for the directions to the hidden Alvitiir city known as Agharta, their capital location. Durin agreed without hesitation, for he still blamed the Metallics for the position they were in. With their contract complete, Zura left as silently as he had come and promised his end of the bargain in one week’s time. It was quite possibly the longest week of Durin and his companions’ lives. When the time had come, Durin returned to the forest once more and, as promised, Zura met him with his boon. The promised ‘power’ turned out to be a small satchel of potions, six in all, that Zura ensured would grant the ones chosen to take them power enough to liberate their whole population. Durin was skeptical, but Zura’s reputation was not to be taken lightly, so he accepted the potions and told Zura to find him once they had won their freedom. Only then would he keep his end of the deal. Agreeing, Zura left. Durin returned home, and the next night he called five of his most trusted and loyal companions. Cinta, Selquah, Merron, Alina, and Rella all joined him in the mess hall and agreed to take the potions together and take their freedom. The word was spread as swiftly as wild fire, and just before the break of dawn the six took their potions and hoped for the best. They were not disappointed. The Revolt & Zura's Betrayal The Forsworn Revolt, as it came to be called, was extremely short lived. The six companions became strong and swift and agile, their bodies tough and powerful, they almost single-handedly defeated all of their guards and fled the mining town before their Chromatic masters had an opportunity to apprehend them. They took their populace south, searching desperately for a place to settle. However, the Chromatics seemed to have too much influence on Arcion as a whole. They were forced, once again, to leave the land in search of shelter. They made a painful decision to leave Arcion and return to Utica, the only home they'd ever really known. They took to the sea once more, eventually setting foot on their native soil. they would not go back to the Metallics, but they did return to the forest that carpeted much of the land - Iron Bark. Half a year later, they had begun laying the foundation for a secluded village deep in the forest, feeling safe for the first time. A few months after their village began to take shape, Durin received a mysterious note requesting the six’s presence at a specified time and location. They traveled to Mauhur Keep, an abandoned Fey outpost from during the Age of Pandemonium. There they met with Zura Silentstep, who informed them that it was time to fulfill their end of the bargain. Durin and the other five led Zura for five days before they arrived at the Tirithil Alps, a range of extremely tall mountains that bordered the northern tip of Utica. They led Zura directly to Mount Sirione, the tallest peak. A long winding stairway carried them so high that trees below appeared in minature, at which point they came upon a massive stone archway that led them into an expansive rectangular room known as the Janiculum. They crossed the room and ended their journey at a floor to ceiling doorframe carved into the far wall, which Durin called the Gateway of Janus. Durin proclaimed that their contract had been fulfilled, and began to leave with his companions. Zura, seeing naught but a massive doorframe on a solid stone wall, became angry and accused the six of trickery. It was then that Durin explained that the gate was no physical doorway; it was a magical portal that could only be activated by a special key given to Alvitiir who wished to leave the island of Mytandul for a time. In a rage, Zura spewed forth hellish unworldly tongues that washed over the six like a raging tide. Their bodies froze and refused to respond, they were no longer in control of them. With those same words, Zura commanded Durin to divulge all he knew of these keys. Against his will, the words flowed from his mouth like water. He told Zura that only an Alvitiir could activate the enchantments that opened the portal. He also knew that if Alvitiir planned on staying outside of Mytandul for an extended period of time they would hide their keys to avoid theft, or sometimes completely destroy them. Frustrated but not defeated, Zura released the six from his control and ordered them to return to their village until he called upon them again to truly fulfill their bargain. To their astonishment, he simply vanished before their eyes. Filled with worry, they returned to the Ironbark Forest and their people. A little more than a year later, the small settlement in the Ironbark Forest had been named Deneheim and was swiftly growing. On the exact day and time as before, Durin received a similar note summoning him and the five others once more to the Janiculum. They went, determined to discover why and how Zura was able to control them like he did and vanish without a trace. When they arrived, tidings were less than pleasant. Runes and arrays had been painted on the walls, floor, and ceiling in what was unmistakably fresh blood. In the center of the room stood Zura, and behind him was a man who couldn’t be taken for anything than what he was – a Chromatic Alvitiir. Durin stepped forth and demanded that Zura explain himself, to which the cloaked man replied ‘I’ll do you one better’. He tossed back his hood, his body shifting simultaneously as if composed of pure darkness, and not a moment later a hulking ten foot Sanngridor stood before them. Before they could run, he spoke a single word, and they were immobilized as before. The Sanngridor, introducing himself anew as the Patriarch, informed the six that the Alvitiir were the greatest threat to his kind and were to be dealt with before they had time to become truly overwhelming. He then elaborated further and told them that they would be helping him to wipe out the Alvitiir whether they wanted to or not. Before they could even begin to fathom what he meant, the Patriarch lifted his arms and began invoking words of power, crimson light spewing from the blood paintings. Sheer agony overwhelmed the six, striking their brains with such force that it literally wiped them blank. The Chromatic, a young White named Ferox, watched with trepidation as the six humans began to shift and transform. He watched their bodies swell and darken, until finally they were identical miniature (in comparison) copies of the Patriarch. Ferox suddenly realized he might be in trouble. He had known the Patriarch was a Sanngridor…and now he stood in a room with seven of them. The Patriarch turned and bid the boy to open the door with the key he’d given him. Ferox looked at the small, entirely mundane wrought iron key in his palm. The Chromatic admitted, hesitantly, that he did not know how to use it. He had not been born on either of the Alvitiir islands and had never been there. Without losing patience, the Patriarch turned to his knew minions and used his power to return their minds to them, though kept them under control. He posed the question to them, finding his answer from Durin and Merron combined. Before he wiped them clean again, the Patriarch ordered Ferox to perform the ceremony. The Assault on Agharta By intoning a ritual, Ferox triggered the enchantments of the portal. Elegant Alvitiir carvings drew themselves on the stone in pure white light, a distinct keyway design being the last thing to materialize in the center of the wall at chest level. The key had transformed as well, now larger and golden. It became much more ornate, with carvings on the shank and bit that matched those of the doorframe. With mild astonishment, Ferox fed the key into the keyway and gave it a half turn clockwise. A sound like a series of locks coming undone followed soon after, before the light of the runes spread to fill the doorframe and transform into a crystal clear image of a room that mirrored they one they stood in. Gleefully, the Patriarch thanked Ferox for his assistance and dismissed him as he strode through the portal. Durin’s body moved all it’s own, as did the other five, following the Patriarch into Mytandul. He still did not know how six humans were going to be of any assistance against the Alvitiir, despite being a little empowered. They exited the mirrored Janiculum into what could only be described as a paradise. They strode into a valley of rich green grass, the mountains oddly spaced as if they stood separate each their own, somewhat like sky-reaching pillars on thick bases. Smaller hills and craggy rocks painted the landscape among the mountains. Durin was awed; he’d never seen such a strange and beautiful place. The Patriarch led them across the valley to a carved stone archway, under which a paved road began. Before they could get any further, a pair of Alvitiir in full plate armor, who crossed their spears and demanded they turn and leave, accosted them. The Patriarch was still for a moment, then suddenly had his hands clamped over the guards’ heads. With an effortless squeeze, the crunch of metal and the cracking of bone rung in the six’s ears as the skulls of the Alvitiir were crushed. He let their bodies drop unceremoniously and continued on, puppeteering them on after him. It took them what felt like ages to following the road over the hills and around crags and mountains until they came upon another valley with a massive cliff wall at the opposite side, almost taller than they could see. Between them and that wall, however, was a company formation of nearly 200 Alvitiir. Fear struck Durin’s senses as the Patriarch announced that he had come to put an end to the Alvitiir: that he and his children would wipe them from the face of this plane and seat themselves as the height of the world order. With the challenge issued, the two sides charged one another with roars of battle. They clashed, Durin helpless in his own body as it acted of its own accord and engaged in battle. He watched as he slew countless Alvitiir near effortlessly, occasionally catching glances of other smaller Sanngridor tearing into the Alvitiir forces. When had they gotten there? He watched the Patriarch felling Alvitiir with horrendous ease, then felt a tug on his body as he surged forward in unison with the other Sanngridor. No…it couldn’t be. His body slammed a fist so hard into a chest plate that his knuckles got caught in the metal as it crumpled, forcing him to pause long enough to catch sight of his own reflection in the armor. His consciousness screamed in shock, rage, and sorrow as his body surged forward and took more lives against his will. Before he knew it, they had carved a bloody path across the field and now stood dripping the blood of those he had once considered protectors, the six watched the Patriarch engage the Alvitiir Százados. It took longer than the others, being their leader he was easily the strongest Alvitiir on the field, but in the end…he too fell to the Patriarch’s might. Durin was astounded. Seven Sanngridor, six of which were relatively ‘weak’ had just obliterated a company of 200 Alvitiir…and the Patriarch considered them a threat? Had the Alvitiir only seemed so powerful because they as humans were so weak? The Patriarch chuckled and turned on Durin to speak, “I see your mind…you think falsely. These were simple soldiers, közlegény and tizedes…the ezredes will come now…and you may not all survive.” No sooner had he spoken did eight more figures emerge from the corridor that split the cliff side, descending the staircase with a presence that seemed even to make the Patriarch falter. Six moved forward to align themselves with all but the Patriarch, the last staying at the foot of the stair. Without much pretense, they engaged in furious one-on-one combat with their opponents. It did not take long for Durin to understand what the Patriarch meant, in comparison to before, his body was having a much harder time even landing a solid strike on the Alvitiir he fought. He glimpsed his brethren also struggling, and a curdling screech struck his senses as one was finally struck down. No! Durin struggled in rage and frustration at his mental shackles with naught but pure will power. He felt the Patriarch’s grip slip, making his body hesitate for a moment and allowing his opponent to score a slash on his arm that nearly took it off. Durin collapsed just as the Patriarch removed his influence on Durin and the five others so that he could focus. He then charged directly for the one at the stair, while Durin threw up his arms in surrender and screamed, ‘wait!’ as the killing blow was being readied. He heard another scream of agony as another fell, prompting him to beg mercy for himself and his friends, for they were not at fault. His opponent hesitated and spun his weapon around, clocking him in the temple with the butt of the weapon and knocking him out cold. When Durin awoke once more, he was in a dark stone room and shackled with strange cuffs that seemed to drain his very breath. He glanced about groggily, spotting three more prone forms. A guard threw open the cell door and pulled Durin to his feet, guiding him down a hallway and into a bigger room, where the man from the stair was waiting for him with two others. The man was Thiranthald, a Gold and a hadvezér, who demanded that Durin explain himself and his role in the conflict. He recounted the entire story, from defecting to form the Forsworn to striking a deal with Zura to being unknowingly transformed into Sanngridor and controlled like puppets to attack the Alvitiir. Once he’d finished, Thiranthald was silent for quite some time…Durin worried that he would not have mercy. However, the hadvezér did the unexpected: he ordered that Durin and the three remaining be treated for their illness and returned home. Durin was so grateful that he wept, even if only internally, for a Sanngridor body cannot cry. Their treatment began the next day and lasted for close to a month, before the Alvitiir saw fit to release them. Becomming Witchers They had regained their human forms, though retained their empowered bodies and senses. The Sanngridor magic was strange and alien to the Alvitiir. They could not erase its presence completely, the only physical sign left was their eyes: they ranged in color between vibrant yellow and orange and their pupils were always slitted. For another month the four remained in a quarantined section of Agharta, learning about their new bodies from the ones that had studied them. The Alvitiir gifted them with combat training that suited their agility and flexibility, they even taught them about alchemy and the brewing of potions. Their final gift was the formula for potion that had saved their lives, the only known concoction that had worked to restore their bodies as close to their natural forms as possible. Armed with knowledge and power, Durin and the three accompanied a battalion of Alvitiir troops heading through the Janiculum. When they arrived on the other side they were astonished to see that a large keep had been constructed at the base of Mount Sirione, and the valley at the foot of the Alps had been transformed into an absolutely massive fortification. When they asked, they were told it was in the defense of Mytandul and the preparation for what was to be the most destructive war the world had ever seen. Thiranthald had defeated the Patriarch but before he could he killed, the Sanngridor had turn tail and fled, promising retribution. The Alvitiir were not taking it lightly. Durin and his kin were free to go, as far as the Alvitiir were concerned, but they were cautioned against much traveling – things in the world had already begun to darken. They made it to Deneheim without much issue, though the shadow of darkness blanketed their heightened senses, foreshadowing greater travesty than they could imagine. Deneheim was much as they’d left it, albeit more organized and put together than it had been, and the people rejoiced the return of their heroes. As the Alvitiir had predicted though, the period of ‘calm before the storm’ did not last for very long. Monstrous beasts became more bold, their attacks more frequent and open, seemingly empowered by the deepening darkness of the lands. Humans, unfortunately, being the most abundant and weakest of all ‘civilized’ races, suffered the most. The fey creatures, dwarves and the likes could defend themselves quite easily…but not the humans. It was not long until the first Sanngridor sighting occurred, and they did not cease. Durin and the three began to realize, with their power and knowledge, that perhaps they could be of better use to their people as a whole. Durin and two others, leaving Selquah behind to protect Deneheim, set out from their home and went their separate ways with the intention of aiding humans wherever and whenever they could. They didn’t stray too far, should Deneheim require assistance, but their efforts were noticed nonetheless and spoken of widely. They became known as Vedmak, which meant ‘cunning witchcraft’, which over time became translated into ‘Witcher’. It was in this way that the Witchers became known among the humans as their protectors. But that would not last. As their knowledge and skill expanded, such as the discovery of the use of silver in weaponry to boost damage and the development of magical signs, their reputation grew…but so did their alienation. Humans began to fail to see them as their kin as their ways grew stranger and more arcane, but they relied on them regardless. The state of the world declined steadily, until the four Witchers realized that there were not enough of them to counter balance their opponents. They needed more help, but it would be impossible to make more Witchers without the original trigger – the Sanngridor Venom. It was a dangerous mission, but they came up with a plan. Selquah, who had an affinity for alchemy and potion making began creating large quantities of the ‘Antidote’ for the Sanngridor Venom. Rella and Durin began to travel as far and wide as possible, helping where they could and providing examples of their power as well as attempting to recruit willing members. Merron had the hardest task of all. Being the swiftest, most nimble, and most attuned for the arts of stealth, she volunteered to find a way into the Underdark and acquire more Sanngridor Venom for Selquah to analyze and reproduce. She was expected back in a month, and did not return until nearly two weeks after. Truly, she did not return at all. By chance, Durin and Rella happened upon a corpse near the road so badly mauled it was hardly recognizable save for one thing: a charm around its neck, a dragon’s scale on a simple silver chain. It was Merron. They searched her body to find a journal outlining her entire adventure and, astonishingly, a vial of Sanngridor Venom. She had succeeded after all. They carried her body to Deneheim and gave her a proper burial before sending out the invitations for the recruits. Selquah was able to analyze the Venom well enough to reproduce it, and made equal quantities of it and the Antidote. Before long a handful of new recruits had arrived, time was already running short, and the ritual was performed the same day a new recruit arrived. The very first to undergo the procedure did not succeed, the antidote didn’t take and Durin was forced to slay the rapidly growing Sanngridor. They reviewed the potions and Selquah adjusted the Antidote to reflect a slight variation in the Venom’s ingredients. On the second try, they succeeded. They first administered the Venom, and followed with the Antidote when the recruit’s eyes changed – the only physical indication that the Venom had taken root. It was tremendously painful and took nearly three days to complete, but they had perfected the method. Some though, did not survive the procedure regardless; the strain was too much for their bodies. On average, about 40% of the recruits who underwent the ritual actually survived to become functional Witchers. Thanks to the ever-increasing frequency and brutality of monster attacks, these new Witchers were not able to undergo the amount of training that Durin would have liked. They received a weeklong crash course in combat, signs, and alchemy while learning about their bodies before they were sent out to begin trekking the world and accepting assignments. Just as the Witchers were growing in force and numbers, the worst possible thing occurred – the war began. The Cimmerian Shade Begins The Cimmerian Shade began with the first assault on the Alvitiir fortification, now known as Tirithil Keep, in which the Alvitiir and their allies the Fey had gathered. A force of twenty Sanngridor met a force of nearly six hundred Fey and Alvitiir warriors on Ariger’s Plains. The conflict lasted only a few hours until losses became too heavy for the Tirithil Alliance to continue on. They retreated with just about 100 warriors left; the Sanngridor had only lost one. Having proven their superiority, the Sanngridor were no longer subtle. Their forces began to mass on the opposite edge of the battlefield, in plain view of the Keep, for all to see. Over a period of two months, numerous smaller skirmishes set the tone for the war; a band of fifty Alliance warriors would take it upon themselves to challenge their opponents…who would send one. It was rare for anyone to return. The Alliance searched frantically for a solution while attempting to keep the Sanngridor at bay, who’s forces were growing slowly but steadily. They seemed to be running out of tricks when a Fey blacksmith known as Vorendel provided a suggestion. Recently, the Fey had acquired the ability to craft a metal known as Orium, which had the ability to greatly magnify magical power. There were only two drawbacks; it had to be specially purified during the smelting process or it was fatally poisonous, and it was too soft to be used for weapons or armor. What good would it do, they questioned, to smelt a dangerous ore that couldn’t even be used to forge instruments of war? That is where they were wrong, according to Vorendel. If an extremely tough but malleable substance could be used to strengthen the metal during the forging, something with natural magic properties, the weapons produced could be extremely durable and powerful indeed. What then, did he suggest that they use? The blacksmith assumed it would be obvious – they use dragon scales. Skeptical but lacking further options, they prepared to forge the first Orium based weapon in history. While they struggled to come up with a concoction that could be used to purify the ore, they acquired a surprising ally. A small band of Witchers, lead by Durin himself, requested to be of assistance to the Alliance. Thiranthald, the Gold hadvezér who had saved Durin’s life, accepted his proposal immediately and welcomed him to the Keep. There, Durin and Selquah held council with Thiranthald and the representatives of the other races: Lady Nimrilye of the Elves, Warmaster Cildaen of the Eladrin, Rynem Urdeth of the Drow, Teludiin the Gold dragon representing Metallics, Cezin the Red dragon representing Chromatics, and Mydorak of the Red-klán representing Chromatic Alvitiir. During the meeting they attempted to come up with a solution to Orium’s smelting process, Durin suggested that they include Selquah in the experiments because of his knack for alchemy. This turned out well, as it was Selquah who managed to perfect the formula much more quickly than expected. As the Council was solidifying a battle plan, the first Orium-based weapon was forged in dragons’ fire using a Blue’s scales. The resulting weapon, a claymore known as Crimson Storm, was given to an Alvitiir of the same color to wield in its maiden battle. Myrani carried naught but his sword to challenge a Sanngridor to battle, which was of course readily accepted. They engaged furiously, ducking and dodging one another’s attacks as the alliance watched with growing disquiet. Then suddenly, crackling with wicked electricity, Crimson Storm lopped off the Sanngridor’s left arm as easily as if it were normal flesh. Both sides were frozen with utter shock. Tirithil Keep was suddenly in an uproar, a triumphant explosion so monumental that the ground literally shook from the force of their voices. Myrani quickly recovered and beheaded the Sanngridor, marking the first true victory against one since they’d come here in the first place. He returned to the Keep a champion, and Orium weapons were rapidly put into production. Due to the dragon scales, Orium weapons proved to be extremely durable (they never broke, chipped or dulled from use) and for reasons that no one was truly able to explain, the Sanngridor’s only true weakness. The blades cleaved through their bodies like no other weapon could, their elemental power surging into the open wounds, and though purified they seemed to poison the Sanngridor regardless. It marked the turning point of the battle, and was viewed as an utter miracle. With the strongest warriors crafted an Orium weapon of their chosen type and element, an Alliance force assembled on the field of battle. However, the Sanngridor army did not meet them. Instead, the Patriarch himself strode out onto the field to meet the 350 specially armed warriors. With confidence, they came upon the Patriarch with weapons flashing and elemental energy blazing. The battle was a tragedy. The blades would cut, but would not cleave, the wounds they inflicted were shallow flesh wounds. The elemental power seemed to have little effect, and he did not contract the poison. The Alliance was crestfallen. Nearly 100 warriors were slaughtered before they retreated, recovering as many of their comrade’s weapons as they could. Those they did not recover, the Patriarch demonstrated he could break. What would they do now? Their true enemy stood in the field, snapping an Orium sword in half in his bare hands as his shallow wounds healed. He announced that he had had quite enough of their foolish games, and would be leading his children to decimate the Keep in a weeks’ time; they should prepare to die. What hope did they have now? The Return of Hope That hope came from a realm beyond theirs, just as their enemy had. Except this time, it came from the Astral Sea. That night, three extremely strange and obviously powerful dragons simply appeared within the walls of the stronghold, blinking in and out of sight as they approached the Keep in an almost playful manner. Alarmed, the Keep’s guard attempted to confront the strange beasts, but they could not catch them. They scaled the walls of the keep and leapt into the sky, disappearing from sight for a moment, before their glow could be seen ascending Mount Sirione and entering the Janiculum. Within was one member from each type of dragon in a polymorphed humanoid form and one of each Alvitiir, praying to the father of all dragons, Io. Having heard their call, the Mirthral dragons had come to pay them a visit. They fell to their knees in reverence for the Ninefold Dragon’s messengers, who acknowledged their respect. The Mithral dragons told their kin that Io had heard their prayers long before they had even spoke them. They instructed their kin to create three more Orium blades, specific to the three races present in the Alliance, and put them in the hands of their mightiest warriors. Always hot-blooded, Mydorak did not see a solution. How could these blades, the same as the others, slay the Patriarch when they were nigh useless before? That answer was simple. With reverence, each Mithral dragon deposited five opalescent scales onto the floor at their feet. They shone with unnatural radiance, the colors of their surfaces shimmering and shifting, almost as if alive. The dragons and Alvitiir were speechless. These scales, the Mithral said, were Io’s gift to his children in this world, taken from his very body and entrusted to them before his fatal battle with Erek-Hus. The dragons and their kin gave thanks to Io and his Messengers before hurrying down the mountainside. Time was short, and they had much work to do. As the finest and purest materials were gathered for the swords, one outstanding warrior from each race was chosen to wield them: Selkydan a male Gold Alvitiir, Althaea a female of the Fey, and (not surprisingly) Durin representing the Humans. With their warriors giving explicit details and instructions as to their most preferred sword type and construction preferences, the blades were forged with great care and to very specific plans. Though extremely different, each blade had a hilt carved from dragon bone and wrapped in dragon hide of just the right texture for maximum grip. On the flat sides of each weapon, Vorendel carved the names of the blades as dictated by their masters. The Alvitiir weapon was called Atheartórák ''(Celestial Storm), the Fey weapon was named ''Thalionalata (Dauntless Radiance), and finally the Human sword was called the Sanctificetur Aegida (Hallowed Aegis). Together, they were the most beautiful and deadly weapons that anyone in the Alliance had ever laid eyes upon. With no time to spare, the weapons had been completed late on the seventh day. So on the eve before their fated battle, Vorendel and the three chosen met with the dragons and their kin in the Janiculum once more. They dedicated the weapons to Io, placing them upon an altar cloth on the floor where the Mithral dragons had presented the scales a week before. They gave thanks for the Ninefold Dragon for his assistance and intervention before asking that he bless the swords with power and guidance to extinguish the darkness from their lands. Once the service had been completed, they left the swords in the Janiculum for a period of ‘purification and rest’. Unknown to them, however, the forging of the Concordant Blades had not gone unnoticed. Such divine and powerful weapons being introduced into the world could not be permitted, in the eyes of Asmodeus. The lord of the Nine Hells presented himself to the Patriarch, which is a rarity in its own right, and informed the Sanngridor of what had transpired. For the first time, the Patriarch felt a brush of mortality…such swords would surely strike him down. What then should he do? Asmodeus had the answer. He would personally deal with the blades, but the Patriarch had to feign death and allow the inevitable decimation of his forces in the wake of such an event. The Patriarch was hesitant; how would the obliteration of his kind and a concealed existence help him dominate this plane? That, Asmodeus would share in time, they would deal with the present before looking to the future. He saw no other logical way out, so the Patriarch agreed to the Lord of the Ninth’s deal. In the dead of the night, Asmodeus appeared in the Janiculum and placed powerful seals upon the Blades (for even he could not destroy them), nullifying their power. He then produced exact replicas, complete with enchantments to mirror their abilities, and cast the true Blades through a rift with no specific destination. As Asmodeus returned to his realm with confidence, the Mithral messengers from before intercepted the Blades as they soared through the spaces between realms, having foreseen the event. They kept them, for it was not yet time for their presence, and allowed events to unfold as they had been seen. The War Ends At first light, the Alliance Army and the Sanngridor forces met on the field. Ahead of them were the chosen three with divine weapons in hand and the Patriarch himself. Keeping up his act, the Patriarch scoffed at their weapons and ridiculed their confidence, challenging them to a one-on-three duel. The warriors accepted without hesitation and strode forward to meet their hated enemy in the middle of the field. When within range, they charged one another and the fight had begun. The warriors were swift and agile, the most powerful and experienced of their kind, and the Patriarch was horribly mighty. The battle raged for what seemed an eternity as they inflicted small wounds on the massive Sanngridor while managing to avoid mortal injury themselves. Then the moment came. Selkydan saw that they would not make any progress unless they could create an opening, and acted selflessly. As the Patriarch slammed a fist into his body he used all of his might to brace himself and stay steady, enduring the blow. He rammed Atheartórák entirely through the Patriarch’s forearm and wrapped his own arm around the other end of the blade, locking the beast in place. Because of that brief moment of shock and surprise, Durin and Althaea were able to deal the killing blows. The nimble Fey used the Sanngridor’s own back as a springboard to soar high above him and ram her blade through the crown of his skull while Durin came in from below and lodged his sword between the ribs. The Sanngridor loosed an unearthly screech as veins of crimson light painted his body like cracking stone. He soon became still and silent, his body graying strangely, until he and the Blades disintegrated to nothing but a pile of ash sent dancing by the winds. Silence took the field. Battered and beaten, the chosen three collapsed where they stood. The ground thundered as the two armies converged around them, Alliance warriors protecting them from the Sanngridors’ rage as they attempted feebly to avenge their fallen leader. With the Orium blades, and the blow to their morale, the battle did not last very long. They were being slaughtered, their numbers dwindling rapidly, and soon began to attempt to escape. It is impossible, however, to escape a dragon. From the skies, the dragons corralled the fleeing Sanngridor for their allies to dispatch swiftly. By the end of that day every Sanngridor present on the field, which had been every one in existence according to the Patriarch, had been killed. It was truly over. The three were regarded as saviors, dubbed the Champions of Callaron, and given the highest of honors and titles in their respective societies. For the next six months, Alliance patrols made regular trips to the Underdark and various places around the world, ensuring that the Sanngridor had truly been completely purged from the land. They did not find many, only a handful had not been present on the field, and they never discovered anything that they would have considered a ‘headquarters’ or a base of operations for the Patriarch. When a ‘sector’ was cleared, that group returned their Orium weapons and was honorably discharged from the Army. That same day, the decision was made by a near unanimous vote that the Orium weapons should be destroyed. They were far too powerful, and now too numerous; to be allowed in a world that desperately required peace. It was agreed, however, to let some survive as trophies and reminders of the war. The shards from the destroyed weapons were gathered and distributed into two even piles by weight. Though they sought peace in the world, they were not without sense. One pile was distributed evenly between the races of the Alliance, though the shards could never be reforged into weapons, they could still be used to enhance other weapons or items. The second pile was given to the dragons, who flew far away from the land all over the world and sprinkled the shards into the sea. The few remaining complete weapons went home with their masters, great warriors and trustworthy allies capable of protecting such power from the wrong hands. Durin and the Witchers returned to Deneheim to begin truly organizing their order.The Alvitiir split once more, the Chromatics returning to Lyrundias and the Metallics to Mytandul. The shadow of fear and evil was finally lifted, but its remnants were not so easily removed. Beasts and monsters still roamed the world, causing destruction and death as they saw fit and the sentient races struggled to rebuild all that had been lost. So begun the Eventide…